


Music and Clockwork

by godtiermeme



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Albino Karkat, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Clockpunk, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Humanstuck, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-18
Updated: 2012-11-18
Packaged: 2017-11-18 22:19:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/565891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/godtiermeme/pseuds/godtiermeme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your name is Karkat Vantas. You are slightly over eighteen years old, and you work as an apprentice clockmaker to a dictatorial and anger-prone boss. Most of your childhood friends have moved away over the years, and you barely have time to socialise with anyone anyhow. You've recently taken up drinking, using the lax laws system of your town to your advantage, and have been running into the law constantly. Life for you is a rut that you're stuck in, digging yourself deeper and deeper with every passing minute; until, one day, a familiar face emerges to help...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Music and Clockwork

_Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock…_

The brass pendulum of the grandfather clock swings rhythmically back and forth, and the shining gears inside turn slowly with each sweep.

_Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock…_

Your reflection shifts with every movement of the reflective clock part. It distorts wildly, then returns to normal. It stretches and bends into wild, contorted figures.

_Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock…_

Since childhood, you’ve had a penchant for the antique grandfather clock in the corner of the workshop. Watching how its pendulum bent light and distorted your already bent reality has always entertained you.

_Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock…_

Today, however, it has finally let you down. Actually, it let you down months ago, on your eighteenth birthday. The clock, which has comforted you for so many years, still does nothing to cheer – or even so much as distract – you now. With every swing, you feel yourself sinking further into your own world of doom and gloom. “Razor blades and broken glass”. That’s what one of your friends once called your mind…

“Karkat!”

The voice snaps you out of your pensive state and hurls you roughly back into your bleak reality. The sound of the lone grandfather clock is joined by the constant ticking of umpteen more. The tools on your workbench stare back up at you mockingly, and the flickering gas lamp which lights your workspace flickers ominously.

“KARKAT!”

This time, the voice is louder. Since the first call, you knew who it was. You knew it was your boss. But you didn’t want to answer. Not now…

“GODDAMMIT, KARKAT!”

You stare down at the expensive golden clock face; at the hundreds of dollars you’ve wasted in one fit of frustration. The more you stare at it, the more you swear that the irreparable series of deep gashes in the fragile surface looks mockingly back at you. You’re so engrossed in looking at the scratches you’ve made that you never notice your boss walking into the room.

“You fucking idiot!” A rough hand grabs you by the back of your shirt before you have time to think. The arm it’s attached to pulls back before hurling you across the room. For only a second or so, you remain airborne. You come crashing down quicly, however, and skid across the floor for at least two yards before coming to a stop. “Do you realise how much money I just wasted because of you!?”

“Yes sir,” you reply resignedly. There’s no use in fighting. Your father worked for this asshole, and you have to, too. It’s the way things work… “I’m sorry.”

“You’d better be, you piece of shit.” The same hand which had hurled you across the room just moments ago curls into a fist and slams into your face with surprising force. As your back hits the floor, and blood begins to drip from your nose, you hear the door slam shut.

Once you can no longer hear the footsteps, you reach into your pocket and pull out a blood-stained rag. You hold it to your nose and watch as a vibrant red cloud begins to spread across the rusty red fabric. For what feels like forever, you sit on the floor of the workshop with a bloody rag to your nose. Eventually, once your nose has stopped bleeding, you glance at the clock. 5:00pm. You let forth and exasperated sigh and gather your things before wandering over to the shop entrance with the key.

You exit the dimly lit store and step into the bitter cold winder afternoon. Snow drifts lazily down from the sky, and the streetlamps are beginning to slowly buzz to life. More importantly, though, the bar down the street is also opening their doors.

After wrapping your coat around you to ward off the chill, you wander down to your favourite haunt. Once you’re inside, you wander over to your favourite seat: a broken old barstool next to the window. You pull out your cheap cigarettes and light up with a match, shaking the flame away once you’re done, and order yourself a beer. As per usual, you get the “you don’t actually look legal” look before the bartender shrugs the thought off and passes you an ice cold bottle of liquid deliverance.

It only takes you about an hour to down your original bottle, plus three more. Your vision is starting to blur, but so are your usual feelings of anxiety and depression. You order another, watching with unhealthy anticipation as the bartender slides the bottle towards you. Just before it reaches your hands, however, a hand – clad in a fingerless glove with the most disgusting plaid pattern you’ve ever seen while drunk – reaches out and intercepts it.

Your gaze follows the hand, travelling up until it meets a strangely familiar bespectacled young man about the same age as you. “WHAT THE FLYING FUCK!?” you scream. Your words are slurred, and you sway tediously back and forth as you stumble out of your seat. “I FUCKING ORDERED THAT. YOU CAN’T JUST FUCKING TAKE WHAT I FUCKING PAID FOR. WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING!?”

“Making sure you don’t do something stupid,” he replies matter-of-factly. 

His blunt reply and strangely familiar voice do nothing but irritate you more. You curl your fingers into a fist and pull back, aiming for the bridge of his stupid sunglasses. Just before you’re about to land a hit, however, he casually steps to the side. You come crashing to the floor with a loud crash, prompting all of the patrons of the bar to stare blankly at both of you.

You let forth a drunken, pained groan as you roll onto your back. Through the alcohol-induced haze which clouds your vision, you see him crouched beside you. The sound of laughter surrounds you, and you can feel your cheeks burning.

“Looks like I came at the right time,” he mumbles. You feel him lifting you to your feet and dragging you out of the bar. By this point, though, you’re too shocked to actually say or register anything.

He asks you a few questions on the way back to your apartment, and you manage a few garbled replies. Upon reaching the door, he reaches carefully into your pocket and pulls out your key. He helps you navigate the precariously messy living space before helping you into bed and wandering off, leaving you to fall into an inebriated slumber.

When you awake the next morning, you’re surprised to find that he’s still there. You let forth a pained whimper as the sunlight streaming through the windows hits your eyes and dive back under the covers.

He seems to get the message, seeing as he quickly jumps from the bed and draws the blinds closed. When you finally decide to re-emerge from your hiding space, you find him standing near the window, staring expectantly at you.

Who was he…? You know you know him. There’s something familiar about him… You urge your hungover brain to action, trying desperately to think of who he was. Who was he…? Foggy memories begin to slowly form in your mind. You remember your not-so-distant childhood, playing at his house; fighting off a group of bullies for him…

“Dave?” The reply you make is hesitant, yet the name feels strangely familiar in your mouth.

“Well that took you long enough, you bastard,” he laughs.

The familiar voice throws open a floodgate you never knew you had within your mind. Memories flood into your head, and you inadvertently let forth a growl of discomfort. You reach over to your bedside table, your hand flailing wildly about until it comes in contact with your absurdly thick glasses. Once you’ve found them and put them on, you take a proper glance at your intruder.

For what feels like forever, you stare at his ridiculous shades and perpetually messy blonde hair. You gaze at the black jacket he wears, noting the broken record pin on the lapel…

“You okay, dude?”

A quiet, shocked yelp escapes you as his voice pulls you back into the real world. His fingers are snapping in front of your face, and the noise they produce feels like someone slamming a sledgehammer against your skull. “Stop. Stop. GODDAMMIT, I FUCKING SAID STOP!” you yell loud enough to make your own headache worse, but at least you got him to stop. After rubbing your temples for a few minutes and calming down, you look back at him. “What the hell are you doing here, Dave?”

He shrugs. “I moved in around here and heard that you lived in this boring little town,” he replies. At least he’s courteous enough to keep his voice to a whisper…

“Great. So you’re fucking stalking me now?”

He offers you his most innocent smirk before nonchalantly shrugging his shoulders. “I wouldn’t exactly call it _stalking_ …”

You reply with a roll of your eyes and a crude gesture. “Well I do.”

The smirk on his face disappears and is replaced by a concerned frown. “Well… Sorry. I didn’t realise it would piss you off this much. If you want me to, I’ll leave…”

“I…” You pause for a moment to think. Sure, he was technically intruding on you. He was in your house, and you had just woken up with him in your bed with you. At the same time, however, you rarely get any company. If you were to be honest with yourself, you’d say you actually enjoy having him here. But, seeing as that’s not going to happen any time soon, you settle for the decision that you’ll tolerate his presence. “Look… If you don’t have anywhere else to stay right now, you can stay here.”

A wide grin spreads across his face, and he suddenly pulls you into a painfully tight hug. “You’re fantastic, dude.”

“Great. Fucking great,” you snarl. “Now let fucking go of me, dammit!” To make your point even clearer, you give him a hard kick in the shin.

He releases his grip on you with a pained yelp, stumbling backwards a few steps before regaining his composure. “Sorry… I forgot you don’t like human contact or displays of affection.”

You allow an agitated growl to escape you as a response to his smug tone. After that, you turn your attention back to the clock. What time was…? Oh fuck… You’re late. You shove Dave out of your way and stagger into your closet, picking out a wrinkled shirt and your one pair of black trousers. Despite Dave’s presence, you then proceed to hastily strip and change into your work clothes.

“What the hell’s the rush for?” Dave mumbles as you breeze past him on your way to the kitchen, still fumbling with your half-buttoned shirt.

“Well I, unlike you, have to fucking work. You can follow me there, too, if you’re so damned interested in seeing what people who don’t own an entire fucking music company do for a living,” you snap. Having made your point, you continue to the kitchen, where you rapidly brush your teeth and wash your face prior to dashing into the living room.

To your surprise, you find your shoes and socks laid neatly side-by-side next to the door. You file this odd occurrence away in your still-foggy mind for later. You’ll have to save that question for Dave until later…

**Author's Note:**

> I'll be hopping between stories for a while, but it looks like this one has the most steam at the minute. So... Yeah. The other is on hold until the muse kicks in again. Also, this was supposed to be SolKat but, APPARENTLY, I can't write anything except for DaveKat (which is fine by me)!


End file.
